


I Don't Know You, But I Want You

by cannibananalism



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, Once AU, just know for sure that there will be things added and the ending will be different, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 17:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5383628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cannibananalism/pseuds/cannibananalism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hanschen is an Irish busker. Ernst is a German immigrant who sells magazines and flowers on the street. Their paths will cross, thanks to a broken vacuum. It's a Once AU, sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Know You, But I Want You

Callused fingers strum gingerly, caressing the guitar of a man who cannot afford its repair. Broken strings stick out like the shock of blond hair on the guitarist’s head. Its sound is low and soft, like the man’s voice, which rings out and graces the ears of passersby. He sings some song they all know, something the radio has played over and over. Ten cents, five cents, fourteen cents, a candy wrapper. Maybe he could buy himself lunch today.

“Hey, man… Nice playin’... Good shit, yeah… Got lots of money there, eh?” comes the voice of a younger man, obviously drunk or drugged or something. His hair is tousled worse than the local houses’ unkempt bushes, as if he had stuck his finger in an outlet. Hungrily he eyes the pile of shiny coins in the guitarist’s bag, walking a circle around it while Hanschen mutters angrily between lyrics. Something like, “don’t do it, Moritz, not today…”

Hanschen knows the act all too well by now. The junkie makes off quick as lightning with the afternoon’s earnings, down the block and through the department store and into the local park. The benefit of having seen the show several times is the ability to recall the lyrics. That is to say, Hanschen dumps his guitar off on some old lady and runs right after the thief. After a good deal of bargaining and a small donation, he earns his busking salary back. So, in short, it’s been just like every other Tuesday afternoon.

 

* * *

 

Night falls. Hanschen’s favorite time. Pretty ladies and gents walked the streets at night, he could play his own music at night, it wasn’t so damn hot at night. You learn to appreciate the little things when you’re a busker. _“If you have something to say, you better say it now…”_ The poor, decrepit guitar sang out beneath Hanschen’s repeated abuse. His eyes squeeze shut and he lets his mouth fall open, allowing his soul to seep out into the bitter night air. His anger isn’t radio anger or television anger. Rather, it is pure, unadulterated rage. Jealousy. Pain. Bits and pieces of his lyrics mirror late-night arguments and jealous texts.

Swallowing down the growing lump in his throat, Hanschen spits out the last line, his eyes slowly reopening. The clink of a coin rings out on the empty street, as does the mitten-muffled clapping of the small man standing in front of his guitar-case-turned-collection-bucket. Ten cents.

“...Ten cents. Thanks. Magnificent,” comes Hanschen’s voice, tasting of bitter molasses. He suppresses an eye roll.

“Excuse me?”

He’s probably the tiniest man Hanschen has ever seen. Tall in stature, small in features and voice, complete with a sweet and lilting German accent. This boy is everything but small, and yet… Hanschen could scoop him up in one hand and stick him in his pocket.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. _Thank you_.”

The boy, his dark hair falling into his eyes, raises a stack of magazines that he’s been trying to sell for hours. “Big Issue?” A small, hopeful smile.

“Can’t afford it.” That makes two of them.

“I’m Ernst.”

“Hanschen.”

“That song you just played… You never play it during the day. I come here all the time and listen to you and you never play it. Why?”

This is news to Hanschen. He’s never seen this boy around before. Perhaps he’s just another face in the crowd; there’s nothing quite special about him, anyway, and he’s rather easy to miss. However, the close proximity coupled with the alluring light of the dim restaurant behind them allows Hanschen to map the beauties of Ernst’s face. A nose that doesn’t quite fit his face, strong cheekbones, the brightest eyes he’s ever seen… He returns to reality to answer the question at hand.

“During the day, people want to hear songs that they know and recognize. God knows I wouldn’t get paid otherwise,” Hanschen drawls. “They just wouldn’t listen.”

Ernst looks almost offended, scrunching his face in thought. “ _I_ listen.”

“...Yes, but you paid me, what, ten cents?”

“So, you just do it for the money, then?” These words cut. They strip the magic from Hanschen’s music, even though they aren’t necessarily untrue.

When Hanschen doesn’t answer, Ernst continues, “Why don’t you get a job in a shop or something?”

“I have a job in a shop.” Why doesn’t this boy just leave? “Listen, I’m going to get back to this now, okay? It was nice meeting you.” His fingers just barely touch the strings as Ernst opens his mouth again.

“Who did you write that song for?”

Hanschen doesn’t suppress the eye roll this time. “For? No one.”

“...Bullshit.” The word sounds strange coming from the soft lips of Hanschen’s ten-cent patron. “Where is she?”

Hanschen flinches, almost unnoticeably, his eyes scanning Ernst head to toe. Who does he think he is? He starts at the mop of dark hair, moving to that nose and those full pouty lips. Down to his chest and hips, covered by a thick sweater. His jeans are paint-stained and ripped in several places, unfashionable yet charming.

“ _He_ ’s gone.”

“Oh… He’s dead?”

“ _What? No._ No. He’s not...dead. Unfortunately.”

“But you love him still. Don’t you?” A grin grows, stretching his cheeks into well-defined smile lines. He rocks back and forth on his heels, holding his stack of Big Issues tight against his chest. Selling magazines all day doesn’t exactly lend itself to hearing romantic stories, so he might as well pry as far as he can, while he can.

“Jesus, man…” Hanschen shakes his head, tired and hungry and absolutely fed-up with this busybody of a man. “ _No._ I don’t. It’s over. I’m over him.”

“You wouldn’t write a song about him if you were over him,” Ernst retorts with a shit-eating grin. Now he’s just having a bit of fun for himself. “Listen, if you play him that song, you’ll get him back. No doubt about it.”

“ _Listen_ ,” Hanschen mocks, “I don’t want him back.”

“I see.” Ernst bites back a giggle, liking what happens to Hanschen when his business is snooped upon. However, he really doesn’t want to be hit over the head by a guitar, so he changes the subject. “What shop do you work in?”

“A Hoover repair shop.”

“...Hoover?” The word is foreign on Ernst’s tongue, English not being his first language, especially not some weird English slang word.

“A Hoover. A vacuum. You know, like, whzz…” A rosy pink colors Hanschen’s cheeks as he mimics a vacuum, slowly pumping his hand back and forth to mime the vacuum’s hose. Normally, he’d make a joke out of that sort of thing, but it’s late and dark and he’s tired and hungry.

“ _Oh!_ You fix vacuum cleaners?”

“Yes.”

“ _I_ have a broken vacuum cleaner!” There’s nothing better to bring two young people together than a Hoover with a broken belt. “Will you fix it for me?”

If he _yes_ es this man to death, Hanschen will get to go home. And so, “Yeah, I’ll fix it.”

The grin returns to the boy’s face. It is bright and brilliant and truly grateful. It’s something Hanschen hasn’t seen in a very long time, especially not directed toward him. He tries hard to bite back a matching grin, but fails. Maybe fixing Ernst’s broken Hoover isn’t such a bad idea.

“I’ll bring it tomorrow, then?”

“Okay.”

“This is great… Tomorrow?”

“Right. Tomorrow.”

Success. Ernst has scored himself a vacuum date.

Success. Hanschen has scored himself a vacuum date. And hopefully, the vacuum won’t be the only one sucking.

“Goodnight, Hanschen.”

“See you tomorrow."

  
And so Ernst is off, but not without dropping his stack of Big Issues and bending over to pick them up. Maybe Hanschen will stand on this street corner more often. It certainly has a nice view.


End file.
